


Three Wishes

by Mintchoc



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Genie/Djinn, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Charles Xavier has a Ph.D in Adorable, Erik is not a Happy Bunny, Honestly Charles What Are You Thinking, M/M, Magic, Past Child Abuse, Revenge, Smitten Erik, Urban Fantasy, Weirdly Fluffy, abuse of mythology, but he has a good reason, will add tags as I need them
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-17
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2018-03-07 23:14:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3186854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mintchoc/pseuds/Mintchoc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles Xavier is just a normal genetics graduate student, and he's fought hard for his normality. So when, by chance, he finds a magical bottle and unwittingly releases the powerful djinni trapped inside, he is reluctantly swept into a world he could only have imagined. One where magic is real, and djinn can be trapped or forced to do the bidding of a magician, if only his will his strong enough. </p><p>Erik Lehnsherr has had more than enough time to build up a healthy, simmering anger, and is hell-bent on finding the magician who enslaved him and left him to rot in a magical prison. There is just one small problem- the indecently pretty human named Charles, his unusual new master. He expected arrogance, casual cruelty, and greed. He did not expect Charles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I appreciate the time you took to take a look at this work. This was a rather sudden and random idea that I had, and I'm afraid that the spontaneity shows a bit. Still, enjoy? 
> 
> Apologies in advance for any ooc-ness. This is my first work in this fandom and I don't really know where I am going with this yet.

It was not a good day for a walk. The wind nipped sharply at Charles’ exposed nose and cheeks, biting a flush of red into the pale flesh, and frost crunched under his shoes. The sun had long since been obscured by a curtain of gray clouds, and all around the air seemed to be something fragile and sharp, almost like glass. And Charles thought it was wonderful. 

This might have had something to do with the fact that he had spent the whole of the morning crouched over a desk or squeezed into overcrowded lecture halls, hands flying across his laptop as he took notes and cramping up just as fast. It was not often that Charles got that queer, cotton-headed feeling that a day spent squinting at narrow text can give you, but then, Charles liked to think of himself as a remarkably good student. 

Lucky for me, he thought, grimacing slightly. Academia had always been his escape. It had earned him many an extra beating from his step-brother, Cain, who had enjoyed knocking books out of the smaller boy’s hands and often employed the excuse of: “because I’m bigger than you, and you’re a nerd” but if not for his good marks and quick progress, he never would have been able to leave.

Lost in his own thoughts, the slim young man made a strange sight, walking slowly down the deserted path, hands shoved into his pockets and a thoughtful look in his clear blue eyes. He was barely looking where he was going, so it was well-enough that he often took walks in this particular park. It was beautiful this time of year, even obscured as it was by the sleet-like snow, and close besides the path ran the river, which this time of year was rimmed with ice. It was not cold enough yet to be entirely covered, so only the edges were crisped. 

Charles looked up, distracted by the skittering of some small animal in the underbrush, when his eye caught on something that gleamed dimly in the falling light. Something metallic. He blinked. A small, elegantly formed bottle was caught in the overhanging branches of an ancient oak, skeletal bowes just brushing the gray surface of the river. That was strange, then. He could swear the bottle was made of metal. Curiosity getting the better of him, he braved the icy ground off the path and picked his way gingerly to the edge of the river. He might have almost tripped a few times, windmilling his arms rather embarrassingly, but that’s neither here nor there. 

It was simple enough to carefully—so carefully—reach out and grasp the bottle, tugging it gently free of its snare. He had to brace his arm on a tree branch to keep from leaning too far out, but he managed it, smiling slightly in satisfaction when it was safely clutched in his hand. Then he ruined it by almost dropping it a second later. 

“Jesus,” he muttered, not unhappily. It was startlingly warm—hot even— to the touch, not the icy cold that he had been expecting. Well. 

“That’s not really normal.” he said quietly, looking down at it, eyebrows raised. 

A moment later, his phone began to buzz in his pocket, and he was forced to juggle the strange bottle in one hand and fish out his smartphone with the other. It was Raven, of course, and Charles sighed in a puff of white air. The bottle was tucked hastily into his pocket. 

**

“Charles, are you listening to me?” Raven sounded exasperated, and Charles hurriedly withdrew his hand from his pocket. 

“What? I—sorry, Raven. It’s been a tiring day.” 

He can practically hear the indulgent smile lacing her words. 

“Oh, Charles. Some things never change.” she clears her throat. “So, how is my favorite brother? Still drowning yourself in work?”

“Hopefully not drowning, yet, but I have been busy. Moira has been running me absolutely ragged with grading papers this semester.” Charles belatedly noticed a patch of ice on the path, and hurriedly side-stepped it. 

“I’d tell you to stand up to her, but you’d be more likely to make her a cup of tea and talk about how grateful you are for the opportunity.” Raven said, not unkindly. “What about the social life, then? Brought home any more charming librarians?” 

Charles felt his cheeks flush slightly. Honestly, he had only dated a librarian once, and he hadn’t been charming at all. He says instead: 

“Thats—not really important, is it? What about you? Is….” Charles searches about for a name, but found that it was eluding him “…Frank, ah, treating you well?” Raven’s laugh is bright and tinkling, and Charles is warmed by it. He always has been, and is absurdly proud that he is one of the few people who can coax it out of her with ease. 

“It was Francis. And we aren’t together anymore. He was too clingy.” 

Conversation with Raven is always flows easily, and Charles is suitably distracted for the next few minutes, cradling the phone against his ear and picking his way across the increasingly icy ground. 

It was surprisingly hard, living apart from Raven, but Charles supposed he ought to have expected it. In a household with Kurt and Cain Marko, Raven and Charles had grown up fiercely protective of each other. Sometimes, it almost seemed like it was competition between them, with Charles constantly putting himself in the way for Raven’s sake, and Raven more than willing to scrap with anyone who so much at looked Charles the wrong way during their school years. 

Art School kept Raven occupied and they didn’t get to visit nearly as much as they would have liked, and Charles had more than enough to contend with himself, what with working on his Ph D and juggling part-time jobs in an attempt to earn some extra cash on the side. Being disinherited had certainly made things difficult in that regard, but Charles wouldn’t have traded it for all the millions he ought to have had—the money felt tainted now, somehow, as though it had literally stained by the hands of his stepfather. 

He had enough to keep himself in clothes only half worn out and to afford a tiny apartment, and most of the time his fridge had something in it. At least he was still able to send Raven checks for her tuition, and though sometimes she returned them, usually followed by a lecture, Charles didn’t mind. He would just send it again. 

 

It might seem like it should have been impossible to forget about the bottle currently burning a metaphorical hole in the pocket of his battered jacket, but between the walk back to campus (and a characteristically one sided conversation with his sister, Raven), the discovery of a new stack of papers to grade, and Hank, one of the students in the biology course he was TA for knocking on his door, Charles managed it. Charles was popular with his students, having developed a reputation for being generous with his time and patient with explanations. 

Night was falling, and Charles was showing Hank out of the rapidly darkening classroom. 

“Thanks, Prof.” said Hank, smiling in that gentle way that Charles was awfully fond of. Charles patted the other mans hand, grinning as well. He had given up trying to tell any of his students not to call him professor (seeing as he wasn’t one, yet) For all that he wasn’t much older than most of them, at 22, the nickname had stuck. Perhaps it’s all the tweed, Charles thought ruefully, looking down at the frayed sleeve of his tweed jacket. 

“Nothing to it, my friend. I do hope I managed to clear things up for you.” Charles glanced at the clock, adding, “I’m headed the same way so perhaps we can walk together.” 

Hank nodded, shrugging on his jacket, and Charles began to do the same. The unusual weight in his pocket reminded him of his strange find earlier that day, and his eyes widened somewhat. Despite his exhaustion and frankly atrocious headache, he was filled with a kind of excitement. He suddenly was wishing to be alone in his apartment, and not because of the cold. If he was slightly quieter than usual during the walk across campus, Hank did not notice. 

 

The peace and quiet of his dark apartment was blissful, and Charles sank into the sofa with a little sigh. Digging the bottle out his pocket, he was unsurprised to find it was just as inexplicably warm as before, almost burning his fingers. It was fascinating. However, his stomach choose that moment to growl unhappily, and, focus scattered like clouds on a windy day, Charles frowned. With some reluctance, he set the bottle down onto the coffee table with a soft clunk, and went to rummage in the cupboards. 

The toast and microwaved soup was bland enough on a normal day, but Charles found that he hardly tasted it at all. He kept glancing over at the bottle, where it sat innocently on the coffee table, as if assuring himself that it was till there. It was a scholar’s curiosity, he told himself. He simply wanted to understand. He didn’t even bother with the dishes, choosing to dump them in the sink (lucky it was that he didn’t have a roommate), and practically fell onto the couch in his excitement. His eyes roved hungrily over the small yet elegant object. 

It was stoppered with a cork, which stuck out precariously, almost as though… something was trying to push its way out. Leaning closer, he noticed with some interest that there was writing of some sort, etched into the gleaming metallic material, as though burned into it. Blinking, he titled his head. They looked like glyphs, perhaps, but not any he had ever seen before. But then, he wasn’t a student of archeology. 

More importantly, how was it so warm? It had looked as though it had been caught in the shallows of the icy river for some time; by all rights it ought to have been freezing, not hot as though… as though it was alive. The thought sent a little chill through him, and he shivered. His fingers ran over the surface lightly, feeling across the glyphs, how queerly smooth it was otherwise. 

Later, he would curse himself for being so impulsive. But he had no reason to know, to suspect anything, and he was curious. It was only natural, really, to take the cork between his fingers and pull. There was strange pop as it came free, and the air felt as though, for a moment, it had been sucked away. Charles drew in a sharp breath, mouth falling open in shock. 

What happened next was not at all natural.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles and Erik have a little chat... and Charles is a bit too polite for his own good.

A long, looming shadow was growing in the middle of his living room. 

If you had asked Charles, a few minutes ago, to tell you what he thought of the supernatural, of stories about ghosts and magical creatures, things beyond the realms of human reason, he would have told you that he was a scientist at heart. He would have scoffed, maybe rolled his eyes. And that would have been all. 

But now, trapped on his couch, all Charles could do was stare. He had scooted back automatically until his head hit the back of the couch, because the entity in the middle of the room had all but exploded out of the bottle. Not in the conventional way that things explode, for there had been no scraps of metallic debris, and it had made not a sound in the silent apartment.  
First, tendrils of thick gray smoke had curled their way up out of the hole of the bottle and inched out across the room, almost searchingly, curling about Charles’ ankles, and then suddenly, with loud crack, a dark shape had shot out of the bottle and begun to expand, as though it wished to devour the space around it. 

He was having difficulty breathing, like everything in the room, including oxygen, was getting sucked toward the dark shape. Charles squeezed his eyes shut tightly. Not real. he told himself, a bit hysterically. I’ll open my eyes and there will just be a metal bottle, and I’ll tell myself to never stay up all night grading papers again. A beat of taut silence passed, before he had the courage to face whatever would be there when he opened his eyes. 

Upon opening his eyes, he immediately paled, because while there was no bottle, neither was their a huge, looming shadow anymore. Now there was just a man, standing on his coffee table, and looking very angry. 

Charles had never taken himself for the type to faint. He had never passed out without good reason to (like, say, blunt force trauma) something which used to make him fairly proud. He had been called a lot of things—nervous, delicate, a soft academic at heart, but he was usually fairly good at retaining consciousness. 

However his field of vision was narrowing dangerously, wobbly and inconsistent like a funhouse mirror, and he felt as though it would have been quite easy for him, and perhaps much nicer, to simply slip into a welcome blackness— _because there was a man standing on his coffee table._

The man was tall and thin, a sharp, severe silhouette in the dark room, his eyes standing out like chips of pale sky. A wide, harsh line of a mouth slashed across the face, which, despite the absurdity of the situation, Charles couldn’t help but notice was a particularly attractive one, if you liked the dark and brooding type (Charles did, very much). 

The man was holding the bottle in one of his large, long-fingered hands, and was fixing Charles with a harsh, almost accusing glare. There was something almost like a challenge in that glare, as though he was just waiting for Charles to do something. Not that Charles had any idea what to do. He was wracking his brain for the proper response to suddenly finding yourself facing down an angry man on your coffee table. 

“Well?” the man spoke tersely, as though the words themselves tasted unpleasant. He had a deep voice, which seemed to resonant about the tiny apartment more than it ought to have done. Charles swallowed past the dryness in his throat, and simply blinked up at him. His mind was, for once in his life, quite blank. 

_Oh._ The man had begun tapping his shiny shoe on the wooden table, the sound sharp and staccato-like, and he seemed to be growing more impatient by the second. His pale eyes were practically burning in his gaunt cheeks, and he had leaned forward slightly, all coiled strength and stifled intention. 

“Were you perhaps expecting a little more fire and brimstone?” he hissed, “because I’m afraid I’ve never been one for fanfare. Tell me what you want, magician, so I can finally taste some fresh air.” 

“M-magician?“ Charles had found his voice at last, slightly more cracked and higher pitched than usual but not much worse for wear. The man looked unimpressed. 

“Yes, that is what I said. What’ll it be, then? Love? Sex? A pile of gold? Whose throat am I cutting today?” the man asked, a bitter twist to his lips, and Charles frowned. Despite himself, he felt slightly annoyed. Scared and confused, certainly, but now it was tinged with an edge of frustration. Squaring his shoulders, Charles leveled his gaze at the taller man, and pushed himself up on his elbows (he had practically been curled back into the cushions, as though he had hoped to melt into them). 

“What the hell are you doing on my coffee table? For that matter, what…” Charles frowned, his gaze finding the bottle again, where it was still being held “Who are you?” 

“I am Magneto,” the man said, and Charles cringed back. It was too loud—it was as though the words were actually inside his head, echoing around his poor, inadequate human skull, and for a moment he was sensible of nothing else. When he came back to himself, the man was speaking again, but his tone was slightly gentler, if no less full of gravitas. “Magneto, forger of metals from deep in the Earth, friend to the seventh wind. Surely you have heard of me?” 

“Doesn’t ring a bell, no. Look,” Charles began, and it struck him that he was actually trying to reason with this strange entity, which still looked as though what it really wanted to do was kill him, “I think you and I are, er— well, that we have some sort of fundamental misunderstanding here. You seem to think I’m a what, magician? And despite how bloody insane it is, you somehow appeared in the middle of my room in a puff of smoke and now you’re talking about seventh winds and, and, forging things, and I have no idea, absolutely none, about what is going on here.” 

The last part came out in a landslide of words, and Charles stuttered to a stop with a deep breath, twisting his hands in the fabric of his jeans. He had the tendency to ramble when he was nervous, or when he talked for any length at all, and now he was wondering if he had just given himself a reason to be murdered in a supernatural and gruesome way, that would have the police scratching their heads in confusion and saying with some sympathy ‘the poor bugger.’ 

So he was very startled when the man, Magneto, actually chuckled. It was a dry chuckle, and glancing up, Charles was relieved to see that he had not made any move towards him at all, and was actually regarding him with a somewhat considering gaze. Charles shifted uncomfortably and bit his lip, feeling studied. 

“And yet, you were able to break the seal.” Magneto said, almost to himself. In one crisp movement he had stepped off the table and was leaning toward Charles, still staring at him thoughtfully. 

Charles would be hard pressed to admit it, but he might have squeaked. Regardless, he flinched backwards, eyes blown wide and fists clenched. He did not like people intruding on his personal space at the best of times, but in this case he thought the visceral, fight-or-flight response was probably justified. 

“I will explain it to you, since you claim to be ignorant. I am a djinni, and though you might think this gives you leave to call me a genie—it does not.” this bit had a rather obvious threat rolled into it. “And you, loath as I am to admit it, have freed me from the bottle, and therefor, I am—I am in your debt. So I’ll ask you again. What’ll it be?” 

“I don’t want anything!” Charles was almost surprised himself, with how quickly that burst out, and he could see that Magneto was as well, going by his raised eyebrow.“Even if you are a… djinni. I don’t want anything.” _except for you to please go away, and let me return to a life where a conversation like this would be laughably impossible,_ he added mentally. 

“No, no.” said Magneto softly, shaking his head. He was still looking at Charles with all too much intensity. “Everybody wants something.” 

**

It was a very confusing next few minutes. Charles continued his protestations, and Magneto continued with his persistence, becoming seemingly more amused by the second. The anger, at least, had begun to fade away, as the man had apparently decided that Charles was, if nothing else, not much of a threat. 

At least he had managed to scuttle off of the couch, and across the room to the kitchen, a place that felt much more domestic and therefor slightly safer from strange supernatural creatures and all things strictly confined to the pages of fantasy novels. He wondered if it would be absolutely insane to ask the man if he wanted any tea. Charles himself reached for the scotch he had in the back of his pantry, hands shaking slightly. 

He watched the tall, brutal looking man warily as he poured himself a glass, mind whirling. 

“Can’t I just let you go? I don’t really know how this whole wish business works.” 

Magneto was already shaking his head. 

“Of all the misconceptions… thats nothing but a pretty lie that got drummed up in stories and passed around by foolish humans with too much time on their hands and not nearly enough information. I am forced to lend you my services until you decide to send me away, but I’m no magical wish granting factory—I can only do what is within my abilities.” He said, and smiled widely, and with entirely too many gleaming white teeth “I can assure you, however, that my abilities are extensive.” 

“Well then,” Charles said, sitting up a bit straighter, “I’ll send you away. Just, er, how would I do that exactly?” Magneto narrowed his eyes, and he immediately knew he hadn’t said the right thing. 

“You expect me to know magician secrets?” he growled, and then he was looming again, glaring daggers at the smaller man from across the table. Charles was beginning to feel slightly desperate, and he winced, shaking his head. His heart was beating uncomfortably fast, like it wanted to escape his chest. 

“Christ. No, calm down. I didn’t mean to offend you, or anything! Lets just, ah, start over.” He tried a watery smile, which did not feel particularly comfortable on his face, and stuck out his hand before he could second guess himself too much. “Charles Xavier, nice to meet you.” 

For a moment, he thought Magneto wouldn’t take it, but then another slow, sharklike smile was curling across the djinni’s handsome face, and Charles’ hand was being enveloped in a firm, calloused grip. 

“Charles… I suppose no one has ever told you what happens to people who give a djinni their true name?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Charles does not yet know Erik by anything but his djinn name (Magneto).
> 
> Man, am I on a roll today or what? Well, this is a roll for a slowpoke like me, anyway. I feel like nothing much happens in this chapter, so I hope it isn't too static. I promise its going to start going somewhere soon. I have kind of been winging it so far, so I plan on planning out the next few chapters with a bit more thought, so look forward to that I guess? 
> 
> Thanks for reading! Comments are always appreciated, let me know what you think so I can improve myself :)
> 
> ~I had to edit this because I realized that the djinn is actually the plural for djinni. I can't believe I didn't catch that. I suppose that goes to show that maybe I ought to be a little more thoughtful about researching this... Well, time to work on the next chapter!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That's not how you flirt, Erik!

Freedom felt like stretching his legs after being forced to sit for a long, long time. Though his limbs were cramped with stiffness, the pain was sweet, because it meant that he was able to stretch them. Erik could not help the reckless grin that spread across his face like fire catching on a wad of dry tinder, but it was a sharp, ruthless smile. A smile that was hungry. 

There is a reason the greatest fear of any djinni is entrapment. Djinn are creatures of fire, the barest elements of nature. They need space and room to move about, unheeded by the tyranny of four walls, and ever since humankind had discovered the rituals necessary to bind the creatures to their will, they had also discovered how to trap them. 

Being held in one place, their form molded into the tiniest wisp of essence, was akin to torture for one of his kind. Erik had heard of many stories of Djinn who had been imprisoned for years, punishment for some infraction or other or simply at the will of a capricious human magician, and for a time, he had wondered if that would be his fate.

He could remember the time before he had become trapped in the bottle as though it was yesterday. He remembered pain, and surprise, sharp as a slap in the face. Sharp, sharp surprise. And then a knowing sort of horror. He should have seen the man for what he was, should have—

But now was not the time to travel the same self deprecating path he had been for the previous long years, because as much as he didn’t want to think about it, if he was free, that meant someone must have opened the bottle. 

It was time to meet his new master. 

The boy—well, more like young man, really, had looked so small, cowering back against the cushions of a beat up corduroy couch. Pale skin, with the faintest impression of freckles, and an open face with a good deal of boyish charm were framed by thick, soft, dark hair were the first things he had noticed. And then he had opened his mouth, stammered foolishly, and Erik, inexplicably, was intrigued. 

Most humans, when they summoned a djinni, were confident. They came prepared with glyphs and circles of protection, an infuriating layer of arrogance saturating their personality. Certainly they did not stammer, or ask Erik—Erik!—how to perform a dismissal spell. 

Even more curiously, the man had seemed genuine in his ignorance of Erik’s identity, even when he had given him his oldest name, Magneto, which, if he had been a magician, he ought to have known.

But it would be wise, he had thought, to be cautious. So he had menaced a little, played up the smoke and mirrors, and he had begun to wonder if he was doing it to all too good effect. He did not like the way the other kept cringing away from him, as though he expected to be hit. It seemed wrong, somehow, and twisted an unnamed something in Erik’s gut. Which was ridiculous, of course. He had no way of knowing whether he could actually trust the boy. 

It had felt almost surreal, this slender, untarnished looking thing willingly offering his soft, vulnerable hand to a creature like Erik. He had noted absently that it was flecked with ink. And then the boy had actually given him his name. 

**  
 _“Charles… I suppose no one has ever told you what happens to people who give a djinni their true name?”_

“Let go,” Charles said, quiet but firm. He was not looking at Erik, but down at their hands, and his expression was frozen. Erik felt a strange, sudden desire to have those clear blue eyes meet his own, and he smiled a bit more widely, pointedly tightening his grip. Not enough to hurt, but something to take notice of. 

“I really think I ought to tell you first, don’t you?. Since you so graciously decided to introduce yourself.” Erik drawled, running his finger over the tender, soft underside of the human’s wrist. “Names are a powerful thing. If you know someones name, their true name, given to them at birth—than you practically own them if you know what to do with it. How do you think your kind has managed to enslave a people like mine, infinitely older and more powerful? A chalk pentagram and a drop of blood is nothing without a name.”

This was not entirely true. While knowing Charles’ name would certainly nullify the protection offered by a circle or any other spell, if Charles had tried to cast one, the terms of the incantation written in the seal of the bottle had been clear, and could not be reversed once set in motion.

However, judging by the pallor that swept into the shorter man’s face and his increasingly insistent attempts to tug his hand out of Erik’s grasp, the other man didn’t know that. There was no reason to correct him. 

“You don’t own me!” spat Charles. “this is madness.” 

Erik shrugged, a lazy roll of his shoulders, but he consented at last to release the hand, which Charles yanked back and cradled to his chest as though he had been injured. 

_Ah, there._ Erik thought, when the blue gaze finally rose to meet his own. There were too many emotions to count swimming in the clear depths, and he felt almost fascinated by it, like he could be lost if he stared too long. He had forgotten how acutely humans felt things, and how easily they showed it. He cleared his throat. 

“Merely a warning, Charles. I have no interest in your life.” he kept his tone light, polite even. “I propose that we come to an agreement.” 

Charles titled his head to the side, considering, face wrinkled with distrust. He seemed to be weighing his next words carefully, as though afraid that he would misspeak again. 

“What kind of agreement would that be, then? I already told you I don’t want anything, and you…” he squinted at Erik, clearly at a loss, “I don’t know what you want. I don’t know if I want to help you if it’s anything to do with, well. djinni type of things. Or magicians. Really, I would just like to forget about this whole thing, and come out of this not-dead.” there was that beautiful flush again, Erik noticed. 

“Am I to assume that this is Oxford?” he said suddenly, glancing around the cramped, dimly lit apartment. 

He hadn’t bothered to take much of a look earlier, was now greeted with a modest, but thankfully clean home— clearly lived in, though, going by the amount of well perused books that seemed to be piled on every available surface. 

“Is this—do you really not know? Yes, we’re in Oxford. I’m a graduate student here.” 

Erik ignored him, the gears of a plan beginning to turn in his mind. So, that was good, then. He would not have to travel far, assuming Shaw still kept that ridiculous residence he had owned when Erik had last seen him… he glanced back over at his new, dark haired acquaintance with a fresh kind of consideration. It would be useful, having a human companion, a cover, of some sort, because he doubted he would be welcomed back with open arms, considering the fact that he was still supposed to be trapped in that hated bottle, likely sitting on the bottom of the river. And, like it or not, he was still bound by the outlines of the seal, and still owed his services to Charles until the other dismissed him. Which, apparently, he didn’t know how to do.

“Er… Magneto?” the soft, hesitant query shook him from his thoughts, and without thinking he leveled another sharp glare at the young man, who seemed to shrink beneath the hard gaze, rubbing his arm. That oughtn’t to have made him feel guilty, but it did, somehow. “You said you had an agreement for me?” 

“Right.” he nodded, business-like. “I’m looking for someone. Tell me—have you ever heard the name Shaw, before? Sebastian Shaw? He would have been a partner at this university some years ago.” 

“No. Can’t say I have.” Charles raised his eyebrows, looking slightly curious despite himself. 

“No matter. I very much would like to speak with him.” Erik grinned, and he knew it was a vicious, sharp kind of grin, all teeth. “ _Very_ much. And he would be much more likely to open the door to you, than someone like me.” 

“Can’t you just, I don’t know, magic your way in there?” blurted Charles. An instant later, seemingly realizing how stupid this sounded, he flushed all the way to the roots of his hair, yet he didn’t take it back, looking at Erik with his bright as if daring him to point this out. 

Snorting, Erik shook his head. 

“He’s a magician. They know a few things about keeping my kind out.” 

“And what about my part of the deal?” 

“Shaw has resources. We could find a way for you to preform the dismissal ritual, and then you’d be rid of me. And, of course, I’d offer you my protection.” Erik said easily. “Well?” 

He watched as uncertainty rolled across the youthful features, before it could be schooled away, caught the slight furrow that etched itself into the delicate brow. He found that, without even realizing it, he had started to lean forward again, as if hoping to catch the answer before Charles could even voice it. He wondered why he cared so much, and why he felt as though there was so much riding on the decision that was about to be made. 

“I can't just leave my students, my work… I have responsibilities. And I’m not going to go and help you _talk_ to this man.” Charles muttered, narrowing his eyes. “I don’t believe in violence.” 

Erik had moved before the other had even a chance to draw a breath. But it was not his hand that he used this time, to pull Charles towards him, but the buckle of his belt. The younger man’s eyes widened in fear, and he tried ineffectually to pull away, mouth falling open in shock to expose the very red inside. 

“This,” he breathed the word into the tender shell of Charles’ ear, having caught the two narrow wrists in his hands, his power still nipping at all the little bits of metal on the other’s person—his belt, the buttons of his shirt, even the ring on the pinky of his right hand. “Is one of my abilities. Do not make me use any more. I want to work with you. Not against you.” 

Erik could sense, rather than see, that the boy had squeezed his eyes shut. He waited, not loosening his hold for an instant. He could feel the frantic, skittering pulse against his fingertips where they encircled the slender wrists, like a trapped bird fluttering to get away.

“Stop.” Charles said, voice cracking. “I—please.” 

Erik only tightened his grip, mouth grinding into a tight line. 

“Your word, Charles.” 

He heard the tight, shuttering intake of breath, and knew that he had won (this battle, anyway) before the other even spoke. 

“Oh God, I… I’ll help you. I’ll do it.” 

** 

Some time later found Erik sitting on the floor of the shadowy living room, staring at the crumpled form of Charles Xavier. After he had released him, there had been a rather tense, awkward period when the boy had seemed determined to keep his eyes fixed on Erik at all times, as if watching for any sudden moves. A rather useless precaution, really, but then, who was Erik to deny him? 

It was nearing 4 o’clock in the morning, going by the clock in Xavier’s kitchen, and the human had seemingly finally succumbed to exhaustion, slipping into what looked like a fitful sleep, curled into a loose ball on the couch. One hand was extended out across him, almost trailing on the floor, and his chest rose softly with each breath. 

Erik sighed, dropping his head into his hands, finding that he did not want to look anymore. It felt like an unforgivable breach of privacy, particularly because he suspected he was likely the cause of the troubled expression currently marring the lax, sleeping face. The idea made him feel uncomfortable. 

And yet… he thought of the bottle, currently tucked into his pocket, and he thought of Shaw. One young man, no matter how innocent, could not possibly stand in the way of a flame of anger that had been growing itself to an inferno in his chest. 

He burned with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully you enjoyed this little foray into Erik's point of view. I would like this story to have both of those perspectives, and I wanted to write the meeting from Erik's side of things. 
> 
> Did this move too fast? I'm rubbish at pacing, but I hope it wasn't too abrupt. I want this to be a mid-length fic, maybe like 15 chapters, but I haven't decided yet. So for now, it'll just be 3/? xD
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Charles does some research, Erik is mysteriously absent, and they both are far too serious about spilled groceries.

_“Why, there’s someone here to see us, Charles.”_

_“I don’t like him, mommy.”_

_“Nonsense. He’s a friend of your father's. Oh, do comb your hair at least. Where is my blue blouse? I could have sworn I… It’s just that its been awhile since we’ve had any guests.”_

_It had been more than awhile. Sometimes the boy would sit outside of his mother’s room for hours on end, until one of the maids felt sorry for him, and would try to get him to play snaps with them, or follow them about as they did the straightening up. He heard them whispering together in the corridors sometimes, and even though he was too young to really understand all of it, he knew that they were wondering why his mother never left her rooms._

_“She’s in mourning,” one might say, looking sympathetic._

_“Yeah, but for months? She’s barely even looked at Charles…” and then they would notice him watching them, and would blush and turn away, getting back to whatever task they had been in the middle of._

_It made him feel… not very good, when his mother appeared from her bedroom a moment later, buttoning up the aforementioned light blue blouse. She looked tired and old, somehow, more than the last time he had seen her, but she had come out at last, and it hadn’t been for him. That was what hurt. It had been for the man standing in the downstairs foyer, the man with big hands, who had smiled down at him and called him a ‘sweet little boy.’ The boy didn’t believe him._

_“Go read in your bedroom, dear. The grownups want to have a talk first.” her voice was scratchy from disuse. She didn’t look like the mother he remembered from before, who always had her hair pinned in place and who would smack him on the back of his hand if he forgot to use the right grammar. She put a hand on his back, gave him a gentle little push down the hallway, and the boy tried to pretend that he wasn’t already glowing from her touch, which he had been craving for so many months._

_“Kurt!” he heard her exclaim, her shoes clicking on the stairs. “It’s been too long.”_

 

**

When Charles awoke, he was alone. 

He jerked awake as he so often did— suddenly, almost painfully— his eyes flying open and his heart rate spiking, with the distinct impression that he had just had some sort of dream, though he wasn’t sure what about. As was often the case, it had left only the faintest uneasy feeling. 

He blinked slowly, the world coming into focus like a manual camera, and was confused to see the cracked living room ceiling above him. For a moment, he could not fathom why he had fallen asleep on the couch, of all things. He almost never did that, not unless he had been up watching television, or just really, thoroughly drunk. There was a strange weight over his shoulders, too, and he recognized the scratchy, misshapen afghan, a relic of a brief but eventful period when Raven had fancied herself interested in knitting. 

Standing up, he stretched out the crick in his neck. It was a great, long stretch, that caused a few satisfying cracks, but he froze mid-movement, the events of the night before rushing back in with a sudden vengeance. He thought of the tall, severe looking man who had appeared in his living room, and shuddered. And where was he now? Charles had a intense, rather terrifying image of the man sitting in his kitchen, perhaps eating a bowl of cereal, and was spurred into movement. 

The apartment was quiet in a way that only served to put him on his guard, and Charles tip-toed into his own kitchen before he realized the injustice of that—sulking about his own home. _Really,_ he thought bitterly, _he ought to be the one doing the sneaking here._ But then, there was the fact that, no matter what kind of agreement they apparently had, he didn’t trust him at all, and that he had forced Charles into said agreement. 

He didn’t like the barely concealed tension that seemed to exist in the crisp, lean lines of Magneto, like his flesh was shot through with cords of steel, not veins. And he had a feeling that, to the other man, Charles was nothing more than a pawn in a game he didn’t know the rules to, which was less than comforting. He had spent enough of his life following other peoples rules, too afraid to step a toe out of line lest he be punished for it—it rankled him to find himself in that position again. 

His eye was caught by the crisp sheet of white paper sitting on his table, and he could make out clean, curling lines of black script. It smelled ever so slightly of sulfur, and he picked it up gingerly, as though handling an explosive. 

—Be back later. 

Charles almost laughed at the absurdity of it. A djinni who left a note. He wondered how you were supposed to adjust your worldview to include the discovery that creatures hitherto refined to the cheerful interpretation of Robin Williams were actually real. That was appropriate grounds to check yourself into a mental hospital. And apparently, he was supposed to be helping one with some sort of cracked revenge quest, too. If he hadn’t been so rattled, he might have found it funny. 

His phone buzzed his jean pocket, and Charles tugged it out, rubbing his eyes. 

From: Moira  
To: Charles

Where are you??

 _Oh, shit._ He had overslept. Cursing, he raced into the bathroom, only half wondering if he ought just to wait around for Magneto to come back. But he dismissed the thought pretty quickly—the only way to deal with this, and it was easier decide this when the man was not present (and presently looming), was to go do his job. It wasn’t as though the world had stopped, after all. That’s what he was telling himself. 

The day outside was bracing and cold, the sky the color of a tupperware lid, and Charles burrowed deeper into his battered jacket, hurrying along the campus sidewalk. He wondered if he ought to call Raven (they often talked in the morning, before they both had to go to class) but he didn’t think he would be able to manage sounding like a normal human being yet. He kept expecting smoke to pour across the lawn and start curling around his ankles, or an invisible force to grab him by his belt buckle and yank him into some dark corner, never to be seen again.

He was so occupied with his thoughts that Moira had taken one look at him when he had finally emerged into the welcome warmth of her office and said, sounding amused, “Were you out drinking again last night?” 

“What?” Charles blinked at her. The conversation didn’t feel quite real to him yet.“Goodness, Moira. It’s customary to start with hello, you know.” 

She smiled fondly, helping him untangle himself from his knitted scarf. Moira Mactaggert was someone who Charles would have wanted on his side during a knife fight. Not that he planned to be in a knife fight. But there was something about her firm voice and straightforward, blunt bobbed hair that spoke of dependability. She was also quick as a whip, and she wasn’t fooled easily. Charles could be charming when he wanted to, but Moira saw through smiles and stories in a heartbeat. 

“Just trying to keep you out of trouble. That, and you’re an absolute pill to be around when you have a hangover.” 

“Don’t have one. Just…” Charles looked down at his hands, swallowing. What could he possibly say? “…didn’t sleep too well last night.” he finished lamely. There was a beat of silence, during which he was all to aware of her sharp, observant gaze, but then Moira clucked sympathetically, and pushed him down into her armchair, the one by the bookshelf. 

“Come on,” she said gently, patting his shoulder. “You have a few minutes before recitation. Put your feet up. I’ll grab you a coffee.” 

Charles couldn’t help but smile, touched at her obvious concern. Nodding, he dug out his old laptop and decided that he might as well try to figure out what he was dealing with. Cracking his knuckles, he typed ‘Sebastian Shaw’ into the toolbar, and with a sharp flick of his wrist, hit enter. It was time to do some research. 

**

 

A few hours time found Charles walking back from the corner grocery store, hands clutching a paper bag to his chest like it was something precious. And honestly, going by the sorry state of his fridge back at the apartment, it kind of was. 

The sidewalk was a mess of sleet and disgusting, muddied snow, and Charles kept almost slipping. Nervousness coiled in his belly, and he kept glancing over his shoulder. He hadn’t seen the djinni all day, and was beginning to wonder, with a sort of reckless hope, if perhaps the man had simply decided to leave. Maybe he had realized how very useless a soft genetics graduate student who could barely remember to get the groceries regularly would be to, well, whatever magical and surely violent fate Magneto had planned for the unfortunate Sebastian Shaw. 

Speaking of which, that was another puzzling thing. By all accounts—or at least going by what was on the internet—Shaw was practically a saint. Millionaire business-man, philanthropist, regular giver to charitable causes, etc. There was nothing to merit the extreme hatred that had seemed to saturate Magneto’s every word when he had spoke of the man, or to suggest that Shaw was anything other than normal. But then, clearly, there was some sort of secret society type thing going on here, because magicians and djinn were not exactly common household topics.

He had just turned the corner about a block from his apartment complex, when he was suddenly being yanked back by his jacket, so forcefully it robbed him of his breath, and pulled into an alleyway. An iron forearm settled across his middle, causing him to yelp and drop his groceries, (which spilled out quite spectacularly across the pavement). Heart hammering in his throat, Charles twisted desperately in the tight grip, feet scrabbling for purchase on the slippery ground. He struck back almost without thinking, and felt his fist glance off of someone’s bony cheekbone. There was a sharp intake of breath, and then the assailant stumbled back, scowling. 

“Was that really necessary?” demanded Magneto, rubbing his cheek. 

Charles felt his mouth fall open, and he froze, hands still clenched into fists at his sides. He was cringing back before he even really realized he was doing it, back brushing against the brick wall of the narrow alley. 

“I—“ he spluttered, not really sure how he could salvage this one “You scared me! And I dropped my groceries,” he added, realizing. Glancing down, he saw that the eggs had splattered on the pavement, the whites trickling into the gutter. 

“I thought you didn’t believe in violence,” said Magneto, but, Charles was relieved to notice, the heat seamed to have left his voice somewhat. 

He had followed Charles gaze and seemed unduly interested in the slow spread of the broken eggs. 

“Do you need something?” He snapped, on the fumes of a newfound bravery. 

Magneto’s head swung over to look at him, and he nodded, crossing his arms. He was wearing a trench coat, Charles noticed absently, and wondered where the man had gotten it. When he had first appeared in the apartment, he’d been wearing a simple black turtleneck and dark pants. The trench coat, coupled with the whole ‘tall, dark, and handsome’ thing, made him look as though he belonged in a film noir. 

“I don’t want to alarm you,” _—bit late for that now—_ “but I have reason to suspect that we might be… having company, soon.” 

Charles raised one dark brow, not liking where this was headed at all. 

“What kind of, ah, company would that be? Human company?” he said, unable to keep himself from sounding as dubious as he felt. Magneto shifted, a smooth, agile movement, glancing off down the long street. 

“An old contact. I may have tipped him off that I was back in town. The thing is, last time I saw him he may have, well, he may have tried to kill me.” 

“…He tried to kill you?” Charles asked, very quietly, and was rewarded with a terse nod. “And you want to see him? Oh god, did you give him my address? What is he, another djinni or—” he paused, eyes widening “I suppose I haven’t—I haven’t asked yet, just what kind of other dangerous magical beings exist. Excluding present company.” he trailed off, frowning. 

To Charles’ horror, the djinni was doing that slow, vicious smile again, and he looked almost excited. 

“I can assure you that if nothing else, he is one kind of ‘dangerous magical being’ that you are at least somewhat familiar with. And I’m fairly confident that he’s going to want to hear what I have to say. Come on, we don’t want to miss him.” and then he was sweeping off down the sidewalk, well-polished shoes gleaming in the drab winter light, somehow managing not to stumble at all on the slippery pavement. Perhaps that was another of his abilities. 

Charles cursed under his breath, pushing off of the alley wall and trying to calm his racing heart. Hurry or not, he wasn’t about to waste a week’s worth of groceries, so he began to gather up his spilled merchandise, which had scattered all over the snowy sidewalk. He had forgotten to wear gloves, and his hands were already cramping with cold. 

“Oh, and Charles?” 

“What?”

“I’m sorry about the groceries.” 

The djinni had stopped a little way down the road, and was looking at him over one sharp shoulder, where the other was crouched on his knees, in the middle of stuffing a roll of paper towels into the wet paper bag. 

Charles considered him from beneath his lashes, a queer sort of feeling blooming in the pit of his stomach. This wasn’t right at all—he really did look genuinely apologetic, which he hadn't expected. It had sounded like a taunt, another little barbed comment, because, after all, what was the use of apologizing for groceries, when he shown no qualms about threatening Charles and forcing his cooperation the night before? Yet that unnerving smile had been replaced with frank seriousness, and somehow, he was not reassured at all. 

He felt off balance, as though the rules had just been changed but no one had thought to inform him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tune in next time, when we find out just where Erik galavanted off to this chapter, and we meet a most interesting house guest. 
> 
> As always, thanks for reading my inept little attempt at a fic. 
> 
> The token italics for dream stuff at the beginning is going to be a recurring theme to tie into the current storyline, but I wanted to start off that little thread now, so I could build up Charles's background a bit.


End file.
